


In Return

by Mister_Rat



Category: Mr. Peabody & Sherman (2014)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Coming Out, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Family Feels, Gen, Peabody isn't gonna take your crap, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:25:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5497010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mister_Rat/pseuds/Mister_Rat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’ve given so much to the world and to so many people, Mr. Peabody.” His faint yet calm voice, echoing in my ear, rings truer than a bell. “Shouldn’t you at least get something back?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Return

**Author's Note:**

> This blurb came about for two reasons: an enlightening conversation with fellow fanfic writer ‘Hector Peabody’ and the shocking lack of slash in this fandom.
> 
> So relax and enjoy!
> 
> Mr. Peabody and Sherman belong to somebody who is not me. That is all.

Four innocuously huge red words flash across my monitor.

_You have a match!_

**_THUNK...THUNK...THUNK!_ **

_That_ cacophony resulted from my face planting, snout and all, onto the keyboard...repeatedly. Poor example of handling technology, I must admit, much less in front of Sherman who is standing right next to me, nonplussed by my reaction.

Therapeutic, nonetheless.

My apologies for the offhand behavior. Peabody here...and I am currently experiencing an unbearable headache for multiple reasons.

For one, my child, his friend, and said friend’s mother have collaboratively set me up on a blind date with another man for the fourth time this week. More precisely, the twenty-fourth time in the last _six_ months if memory (regrettably) serves me correctly.

To those of you spluttering and gawking, by the way, at why anyone would set me up with someone of the same gender/sex, allow me to lay down a little-known fact about myself.

I prefer men.

Nothing against the other genders, much less the female persuasion. I simply enjoy the company of males more. If you have any misgivings over my preferences and wish to share them with me, then by all means, let us discuss them out in the hall in privacy because there is _no_ need for my son to watch or hear anything unsavory, entitled opinions or not.

No? Very well then.

Now back to the predicament at hand.

The picture displayed on my screen depicts a heavyset man—long ebony graying hair, dark sunglasses, sunburnt skin, and black sleeveless shirt emblazoned with a Hard Rock Café insignia, revealing hirsute and muscled arms covered in tattoos, his bearded smile hinting at a well-meaning yet mischievous side.

No one particularly eccentric in appearance, let alone beyond my consideration. In fact he seemed a rather decent type. I remain wary. When you have been subjected to this matchmaking nonsense as long as I have, you quickly learn to exercise caution.

The last ‘unassuming’ fellow I courted almost shaved all my fur for some inane fur-jacket collection; the one before that, a manga-fanatic who hounded me (no pun intended) continuously about my lack of knowledge on the differentiation between two distinct series; and the prior...ugh, let me just say my perspective on Gummi Bears shall never be the same.

My word, will this insanity ever end?

And all because I chose to reveal my preferences to Sherman.

Not a horrible choice in itself. In fact, I had been planning to articulate that part of myself ever since the timestream debacle, and with Mother’s Day coming soon at the time, I did not wish to repeat my mistake of emotional procrastination.

* * *

Opportunity arrived on a calm gorgeous Saturday evening.

We recently returned from another excursion on the WABAC, and I just completed sharing my overview on the culture and history of Victorian England with Sherman, ending on what the society considered taboo.

The subject of male-male relationships ‘came up’, despite it being a tender subject on my part. Years of mistreatment for being a dog had attuned me to empathize with the struggles of those marginalized by society, and one of my sincerest objectives for Sherman is that he learns to approach and treat others with open-mindedness.

So no, the topic of same-sex/gender couples, we had no problem discussing.

“You sound pretty passionate about this, Mr. Peabody.”

“But of course! Viewpoints such as back then can only persist as long as people resign.”

“Yeah, except you sound _really_ passionate,” Sherman contorted his face in focus, a sign of his attempt at seeking a better modifier, “I mean _super-_ passionate. Like you personally know what it’s like to like other guys.”

My silent yet meaningful gaze replied in place of my voice.

When his eyes expanded in realization, part of me involuntarily flinched.

Numerous times I have seen and heard about what can occur to others coming out. Some inspiring and even beautiful, others...not so.

At the same time, I am well aware how deeply and unconditionally Sherman loves me. He willingly embraced the idea of being a dog himself, even if only ideologically. Sometimes I so easily take for granted the totality of this boy’s affection for me.

There was no need for me to fear Sherman’s reaction. And deep down, I knew could not, would not, bring myself to lie to him. Not when I encourage him to practice honesty. Practice what you preach, after all. Thus, calling on all my strength, I readjusted my glasses and came into the open.

“Yes, Sherman. I am into men. It would make no difference if I weren’t since my only options are either humans or animals, including other dogs.” My lips purse against their better judgement. “You can already imagine the limitations I face.”

No human would risk courting a dog, lest they mean to attract discomfort at best; prejudice and stigmas at worst. And the notion of being mates with a being incapable of communication at my level unsettles me to no end.

Sherman’s simplicity shined despite my argument. “Well, how can you be sure if you never get out there?”

Nowadays I wish I didn’t view eye-rolling as juvenile. This boy elicits that desire in me _so_ strongly sometimes.

“I’ll have you know that I enjoyed a _highly_ active romantic life in high school and early college years. However, as is common in life,” I tilted my head at him meaningfully, “more important matters demanded my attention.”

I should have exercised more caution in my words because 0.93 nanoseconds after my reply—0.03 nanoseconds too late—my eyes catch the downward hitch in his eyebrows. “So you mean, if you didn’t have to worry about me so much you wouldn’t have that much trouble finding someone?“

“What?! No, no, no!” Oh this poor child. Foolish, foolish me! I cupped his face in my hands, hoping to make my message clear to him. “Sherman, please understand! Your well-being means so much to me because you’re my son! I wouldn’t be a proper father if I shirked those responsibilities to merely gallivant around town.”

A mistake my adolescent-self committed so often, drunk with arrogance to hide away from the never-ending sting of isolation and rejection. Smirking and turning away so no one would catch the tears.

Is it any wonder why I never let Sherman see pictures from that part of my life?

As usual, I underestimated my son’s insistence.

“Couldn’t you do both? You’ve made lots of new friends at the PTA meetings. A boyfriend’s not that huge a jump from there.”

My left eyelid twitched, I am most certain it did, while my hands switched from Sherman’s cheeks to my temples.

Oh _Godwin._ I sincerely hoped he wasn’t suggesting that I ask out one of the other single fathers there. There were too many unpleasant (and dare I say, awkward) paths I could see that course of action taking. Especially since none of those men suited my tastes.

“And there’s that ‘smart and’ you’re always talking about.”

Despite the situation, a hint of pride blossoms within me at my son’s try at utilizing business management vocabulary. I resultantly chuckled. “Genius of the ‘and’, Sherman, of which you are correct. The truth is...”

I don’t like biting my lip, so unbecoming, but biological processes decompose me if I had not felt that urge. My eyes break contact instead. “You don’t deserve to face additional adversity because of me.”

For was such prejudice not the catalyst that nearly tore us apart?

All those years since the adoption, all those days spent nurturing, watching over Sherman’s growth like a personal lifelong experiment. All those seconds I wasted struggling to say what must be said, only to rationalize my cowardice and remain silent.

All that almost undone by the actions of a few people.

The saddest part: it was simply the beginning. Because I know humans. There will always be those who fear and hate what they don’t understand, even amongst their own.

Just as well that not everyone adhered to that generalization, a thought that gives me hope.

And proof Sherman never failed to provide for he hugged me. Tightly and with all the love he could possibly give. How could I not return this wonderful child’s embrace?

“You’ve given so much to the world and to so many people, Mr. Peabody.” His faint yet calm voice, echoing in my ear, rings truer than a bell. “Shouldn’t you at least get something back?”

I gently pried his arms off me, pulling him back so we were eye to eye. “I have you.”

Sherman shook his head, his eyes alit by that resolute light that instilled me with another hint of pride, this one greater than prior. “But a part of you wants more, doesn’t it? Why else would you get sad every time you see the Petersons acting romantic?”

Oh dear. He actually noticed? I stiffened at the implication, cursing myself for being so readable. Then again, Sherman has always been an empathetic child despite his innocence.

“Perhaps.” I offer no more beyond that response because I do not hold to the hope of finding someone. Who, male or female, binary or non-binary, human or even canine, would consider me without some ulterior motive?

“Mr. Peabody...”

A firm hold on his shoulders stops him. Just as calculated. “I’m fine with who and what I have, Sherman. If I ever do come to the point of desiring companionship, I assure you, I will make every effort to ‘reach out’ as you said.”

That knowing glint in his eye should have warned me.

* * *

Thus _this_ current predicament.

Why on Earth didn’t Patty _tell_ me she and her daughter were in on these shenanigans? Do those two not realize the annoyance their efforts have invited? Conversely at least I can rest easy that Sherman did not tackle this absurd task by himself. The Internet can be an unsavory neighborhood.

Hmm, certainly I could conceive a way of dissuading this insistent matchmaking. That list I compiled for my failed dates over the months could prove useful in this case. Proactivity has its benefits.

I am already halfway through typing a polite refusal to another man’s request for a date when Sherman starts shaking me vigorously, forcing me to still him by the shoulders again.

What on Earth has gotten into this boy?

“Sherman please, you’re about to knock off my glasses!”

“Sorry, Mr. Peabody,” he elatedly points at something on the screen, “but look!”

As I fix my ensemble, my eyes follow the direction of his finger to whichever potential fiasco has yet to befall me. “Yes, Sherman, I’m looking and for the last time...” my jaw hangs in mid-sentence, eyes disbelieving.

Before my eyes is an image of a _bipedal_ Golden Retriever grinning sparkly-white teeth to the whole world as though he embodies Apollo’s heliocentric powers. With the most drop-dead stunning sky blue irises I have _ever_ seen, umbrellaed by thick black eyebrows, and enough muscle definition for the contours to be noticeable through the baby-blue T-shirt.

In short, he is handsome—unquestionably so. I’m quite certain my throat has gone dry.

Sherman’s nudging returns me to reality, albeit vaguely.

“What do you think, Mr. Peabody? He looks nice enough!”

“Yes...nice.”

Superbly nice, indeed.

Already I can tell from his bio that his more impulsive and energetically hands-on personality could well match my quieter scholarly ways. Emphasis on ‘could’, I would like to point out. This suitor still stands the probability of proving himself incompatible.

Still...

“Sherman.”

“Yeah, Mr. Peabody?”

“Would you rather have a babysitter or stay with the Petersons Friday night? I have an, ahem, _appointment_ to arrange.”

If _this_ will be the fellow to prove my romantic doubts otherwise, then perhaps I won’t mind being wrong for once.

**Author's Note:**

> I might have unconsciously copied Mr. Peanut Butter from BoJack Horseman. In which case, I mean no infringement. And sorry to those who were hoping for my OC, Mr. Jameson, to make an appearance. I don’t like overusing my characters.


End file.
